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86 



HEROISM OF THE RANK AND FILE. 



EULOGY, 

: x £^ T QUNCED AT THE MEMORIAL SERVICE OF POST SUMNER, NO. 24, AND POST 
WINTHROP, NO. 28, G. A. R., MAY 31st, 1868. 

IN COMMEMORATION OF THE UNION SOLDIERS SLAIN IN THE WAR FOR OUR 

UNION. 



BY COLONEL A. J. K. DUG-ANNE. 



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Comrades : The world is ruled by ideas, 
emotions, impulses, more than by laws, logic, 
or deliberations. A spark of thought kindles 
to a flame of action. The mob of a day over- 
whelms the dynasty of a century. A name 
builds up an empire. 

It is the ideal that is power ; the material 
is but force : it is the unseen fluid that kills ; 
the visible lightning and the audible thunder 
only terrify. 

"We behold the hand of a buffoon uplifting 
n^ody dagger, and pointing with it a straight 
of honor? ^ ne Roman people out of monarchy 
berless /publicanism. But the buffoon is Bru- 
unweaihcl his dagger is wet with the blood of 
will r# re d Lucretia, ideal and example of ma- 
rewai/y virtue. 

^y/e discern an impostor bestriding a camel, 
horn/ holding in one hand a roll of parchment, 
ile the other brandishes a scimitar. Nations 
low him ; cities and kingdoms fall before 
5 march. But the impostor is Mahomet; 
3 book is the scripture of Islam ; bis sword 
its interpreter ; his idea is to found a new 
religion. 

Later in the world's history, a barefooted 
monk, advancing with uplifted crucifix, leads 
forth uncounted multitudes of armed men to 
fight against the successors of Mahomet. But 
that monk is Peter the Hermit ; his armies 
are the Crusaders ; his idea and theirs is to 



deliver Jerusalem from the Infidel, and redtem 
the Sepulchre of Christ. 

And later still, in the lapse of centuries, 
another barefoot monk lifts up the Book of 
God, and, opening wide its pages, calls on 
kings and serfs to read them. It is Luther, 
and his idea is the Reformation. 

And later yet, and in our own times, an old 
man, fired by mad enthusiasm, musters a band 
of zealots like himself, and yields his life in an 
attempt to strike the shackles from four mill- 
ion slaves. But the madman was John Brown, 
and after him came Abraham Lincoln ; and the 
four million that were slaves shall be slaves no 
more forever. 

Thus, always, an idea advances, leads, im- 
pels. It is the soul, whose body is action — 
whose outer robes are battles, histories, em- 
pires, revolutions. It is the magnet, drawing; 
the light, revealing ; the heat, generating. A 
cause that is without an idea cannot survive. 

This tissue of cotton threads, which I fling 
out before me — what is it ? No thrill of life 
responds from it ; no voice returns my invo- 
cation of it ; no pressure vibrates on my lips 
as I enclasp and kiss it as a bride. Yet for 
this web and woof of simple cotton, spun by 
hand or loom, there shall be myriads of men 
ready to lay down their lives, as myriads have 
done; there shall be tears, and prayers, and 
embraces, and such deeds achieved as life u/ 



HEROISII OF THE RANK AND FILE. 



mortals to be demigods. For this tissue of 
threads- red, white, and blue — is the flag of 
my country. It is an emblem ; it is a sym- 
bol ; it is an embodied idea. Robing them- 
selves in this drapery, men have wooed danger 
as a l»eloved bride, and died upon her bosom 
exultinglv. Wrapped in its starry folds, they 
have lapsed from Buffering into martyrdom — 
from glory into immortality. Death-stricken 
heroes have looked their last upon it, and 
smiled as though their mothers were blessing 
them. Fugitives from tyranny have caught 
its first gleams, with their hearts bounding 
upward to worship it. The sick have stretctied 
out their feeble arms to it ; the weary piisoner 
has yearned for its sight, " as the hart panteth 
for the water-brooks." I have seen poor com- 
rades in Southern captivity creeping out of 
their huts, under the darkness of midnight, and 
clustering together like shadows, to surround 
this treasured emblem, kept by day with jeal- 
ous secrecy from the search of rebel guards. 
And I have seen them, those loyal and loving sol- 
diers and sailors, rough men though they were, 
with tears in their eyes and with swelling bo- 
soms, pass the precious folds of that cherished 
old flag from lip to lip, in the holy communion 
of patriotism. 

Svmboi of an idea — of manifold ideas—the 
flag of an army, or a people, or a nationality, 
or a cause — how immeasurable its influence 
how exalted its inspiration ! Depress it, and 
the hearts of men sink within them ; raise it, 
and those hearts become winged like eagles. 
Its tissues are woven into multitudinous mem- 
ories ; its colors are blended with infinite 
hopes. There is no thread of its web that is 
not moistened, no hue that is not gilded, with 
the priceless blood of heroism. Thus the flag 
becomes an emblem of faith, a beacon of as- 
pirations, a cynosure of veneration. It writes, 
as with sunbeams upon ether, the name and 
the path of a cause which it marshals. Yet 
the flag itself is only an emblem. Its dazzle 
is but the reflex of an idea that dwells in the 
army or nation whose progress it foreruns and 
identifies. That idea may be patriotism, or 
religion, or liberty — whatever it be, it is the 
soul, whereof armies and nations are but 
bodily manifestations. 

And it is to some tender or gallant quality 
in the man that a flag appeals so potently. I 
care not if he be common soldier or sailor, or 



if his shoulder be doubly or trebly starred, his 
soul must thrill lovingly to the waving of his 
flag, or he is no true man in the hour of trial. 
We have rank and titles for leaders, princely 
guerdons for their services, monuments to 
their memories ; but the idea of the cause 
which upraised these heroes may be sometimes 
more vital in a private's soul than in that of 
his chief commander. The piety of a true 
Christian is not measured by riches or by pov- 
erty. The idea of patriotism or of liberty is 
not written upon a parchment commission, but 
upon the living heart of a man. Brig! 
sword of a captain, but the flames of ^^ 
powder-black muskets at his left reach farther 
into the darkness of conflict. 

I follow, with hushed breath, the firm tread 
of a column of these unnoted heroes into line 
of battle, or the double-quick of their charge 
into the bowels of fiery batteries There is no 
waver in that front — no gap in all those files. 
Who, then, shall I choose out as the hero-one ? 
What matters it that the tew wear shoulder- 
straps and the many have no badge of distinc- 
tion ? There is no hero-one— they are all he- 
roes. Captain, corporal, guide, or color bearer, 
or drummer-boy — black-skinned or white — 
they are in one battle-line, and each man keeps 
his post in the march or the melee. Who, 
then, shall I choose as my hero — the soldier 
who is called general, or the soldier who is 
only known as "one of the rank and file"? 
I will single no one. They are all heroes. 

" One of the rank and file," I said ; on* nf 
the undecorated line of nobility, who" 
advances over lost battle fields, to f 
them with pledges of life-bbod ; one >. 
living stones of those human avalanches 
roll over batteries and bulwarks, and 
throw towers and armies, as an Alpine m\ 
tain-slide sweeps away peaceful hamlets, 
the gazing world, there are but few marl 
objects in the great panorama of warfare — { 
leaders on their battle-steeds, the flags ridi\ 
upon cannon-smokes, the onset of squadronl 
the movement of columns, the swift flash 
a bayonet charge. Of the individual hearts 
beating through long lines, of the personalities 
of valor in those manifold ranks that clcse on 
death so devotedly, there is but one who hat 
perfect cognizance, and he is their Eternal His- 
torian. To us, the vast enginery of conflict 
has merely physical significance. The soldier 



H 



EROISM OF THE BANK AND FILE. 



5 



is but one of its multitudinous cogs and 
wheels. We regard only the terrible machine 
and its directors. God alone sees the inner 
soul-works, that run in such wondrous unison. 

Therefore, I remember with gladness, and 
rehearse with pride, the heroism of obscure 
merit, as well as of recognized fame. I rejoice 
in the daring of the noble wife of that Rhode 
Island sergeant — Brownell — who, in the 
bloody press of Roanoke fight, caught up the 
banner of a regiment, and fell, wounded, while 
bearing it to the front; but I find her equally 
in the hospital- wards, nursing her 
^moiv-Y V.-sband and his dying comrades. I 
call the brave New Jersey corporal — John 
Lawrence — a hero, when I see him lying with 
both legs amputated, after that Roanoke fight, 
and raising his head from his cot to hear the 
news, and waving his blue cap, with three 
cheers, when he learns of a Union victory. 
. . . I repeat with reverence the name of 
that gunner's mate — John Davis — of the Val- 
ley City steamer, who, in the fight at Eliza- 
beth City, threw himself over a barrel of gun- 
powder, to shield it from the flames cf burst- 
ing shells, while he served out ammunition 
to the cannoniers . . . And how can I 
forget the lofty heroism of that unknown ser- 
geant at Fort Donelson, who was seen to 
throw himself before his line, and receive 
within his own loyal heart the rebel bullet that 
would have slain bis captain ? . . . These 
are but initials of the heroic catalogue that 
stands out s lil> lief , on the entablature 

of honor's temple; and yet there are num- 
berless episodes of fortitude, and devotion, and 
unwearied zeal in the Republic's service, that 
will never be noted by the historian — never 
rewarded by earthly renown. 

What holy sacrifices have consecrated the 
homes of ouv patriot volunteers, whose loyalty 
led them to the forefront of danger, and whose 
souls were sustained and strengthened by the 
hope.- and prayers of dear ones left behind — 
the mother, who gave her first-born ; the wife, 
yielded her spouse; the sister who re- 
signed her brother, and the maiden who parted 
with her betrothed ; all priceless offerings 
a the altar of our country — all pledges of 
a s< blime faith in her cause ! 

What illustrations of all that was womanly 
and saint-like are to be met with in the ob- 
scure chronicle of hospital service — that in- 



audible and unblazoned service wherein health 
and life were offered daily upon the altar of 
simple duty, made beautiful by the flowers of 
love and charity that enwreathed it ! How 
blessed in the sight of heaven, how sacred in 
the thought of ail good men, those number- 
less and nameless benefactions which inter- 
posed between the wounded soldier and his 
death, to smooth his passage from the world 
of warfare to the world of peace ! Who shall 
say to me that the hospital was not a field of 
heroic effort? that the Sanitary Commission 
had no heroes enrolled under its banners? that 
the surgeon, the nurse, the unarmed chaplain 
might never win or claim the palm of merit 
such as fame bestows on the sword wielders 
and the death-doers in sanguinary conflict ? 
I crown my heroes in all ranks ; 1 jlasp hands 
with noble ones iu every sphere that is il- 
lumined by the steady torch of loyal and de- 
voted service. 

But it is only when the living idea that im- 
pels heroic natures finds voice or stamps out 
deeds more noticeable than the rest, that we 
are able to signalize some hero-man by name. 
Thus I behold brave Sergeant William Car- 
ney, in the bloody contest of Fort Wagner, 
ditching the falling colors of his regiment, 
and climbing up the hostile parapet, to plant 
them on its highest works ; and holding them 
aloft under the rain of shot and shell ; and 
folding them to his heart when our line was 
borne backward ; and falling thus, with a shot 
in his bosom ; and clasping the colors still 
with one hand, while the other strove to keep 
his life-blood back in the gaping wound ; and 
crawling thus, slowly, slowly, from those fatal 
ramparts, out to his camp again ; still hugging 
tightly to his breast the regimental flag, while 
with scarcely articulate voice, he answers to the 
plaudits of his comrades, black and white : " I 
did my duty, boys — the dear old flag never 
touched the ground !" 

And at the same eventful fight, I see the son 
of one who was a slave — the son of Frederick 
Douglas — mounting, foremost of our troops, 
upon the walls of Wagner, while his voice 
rang out in trumpet tones : " Come on, boys , 
fight for God and Governor Andrew!" 

And I follow that bold Pennsylvanian, Ser- 
geant Bruner, of the Twenty -third Wisconsin 
Volunteers, iu the fight at Port Gibson, where 
he caught the colors from their disabled bearer! 



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HEROISM OF THE RANK AND FILE. 



and planted them on the ramparts amid a 
storm of bullets. And again, at Champion 
Hill, where he seized the flag, as our line was 
breaking, and crying out, " Boys, follow ! 
don't flinch from your duty!'' led the regi- 
ment into order and victory. And once more, 
at the battle of Big Black, under the eye of 
Grant, when the valiant Sergeant led his men 
against a battery that had dismounted one of 
our cannon and dispersed its supporters — 
twice in the melee was Bruner made a prisoner, 
and twice his comrades rescued him; and he 
brought to General Grant the last one of three 
rebel fhgs captured by his own bold hand 
from the enemy. It is in the hearts of such 
men as this that the idea of a cause is en- 
shrined, like a jewel in some golden ca?ket. 

And that old man-of-war's- man, William 
Reid, in his fiftieth year, one of the noble sail- 
ors whose bravery almost redeemed the folly 
or treachery of their flag-captain at Galveston ; 
I can see him, in my mind's eye, as he stood 
on the Owasco's deck, his left hand well-nigh 
shot away, and a shot-wound in his shoulder, 
where the blood oozed through his shirt, while 
holding still a rifle in his grasp, he continued 
to fire upon the foe. " Go below and get } our 
wounds dressed," said the master's mate. 
" No, sir !" the veteran replied : " so long as 
there's fighting to be done, I'll stay on deck!" 

What patient courage, what quiet self-devo- 
tion is common to the sailor at his gun and 
the soldier in his ranks ! so common, indeed, 
that no note is made of it ; so habitual, that 
it is looked upon as the mere routine of duty. 
But assuredly there is a motive power deeper 
than mere routine to inspire these unrewarded 
heroes of our nation. Was there not true 
nobility in that seaman, Samuel Woo'is, who, 
when serving his gun, with resolute courage, 
yet found heart to plunge into the stream to 
save a drowning shipmate, and who, after the 
battle, knelt beside his wounded comrades, 
nursing them like a tender woman as he had 
fought beside them like a hero man ! Was 
there not cool and provident valor in that 
cockswain of the Wabash, Edward Ringgold, 
who, in service with the howitzer corps, per- 
formed his duty with such faithfulness, and 
heading that the powder ran low, passed up, 
through all the fiery line, with his shirt slung 
over bis shoulders and filled with ammunition 
that he had brought two miles from the rear ! 



Well did these seamen deserve the medal they 
won for " gallantry in action." 

I have spoken of the fight at Fort Wagner, 
and of its heroes, Douglas and Carney, whose 
African veins were flooded with such patriotic 
blood, and whose dark skins covered such 
trusty hearts, as their captains of purest lin- 
eage might well be proud to recognize. Such 
men deserved to be led by the chief who died 
for them — that immortal son of Massachusetts 
sires, the gallant Colonel Shaw. 

Let us thank God that everywhere, in all 
the bloody years of our righteous vt 
treason, the names of such faithful iLoieilKU, 
are recorded in the pages of impartial history ! 
Not among generals only — brave and meri- 
torious though they be — need we look for ex- 
amples and models of patriotism. The hero 
of a knapsack is grand as the hero of a baton ! 
Martyrs ascend to heaven from rank and file 
as luminously as from the field and staff. 
Poor PJummer Tidd, who bad fought with 
John Brown at Harper's Ferry, and who lay 
dying on his cot with typhus fever, while the 
batteries of Fort Donelson thundered in bis 
ears, was no less a hero of liberty than if he 
had fallen at his sergeant's post in battle. ''Is 
our side winning ?" he gasped, as the gun-boat 
rocked under the concussion of artillery, and 
when the chaplain answered "Yes !" the brave 
man said, " Thank God !" and died ! 

John Beman, the humble watch-nan of a 
steamer, hanged by the rebels to a tree in 
Mississippi, because of being a loyal man, de- 
serves his place upon the hero-t*biet ; not less 
than our martyred Abraham Lincoln. " I will 
die before I take the Southern oath," this bold 
Norwegian cried ; and they swung his body 
upward ; but his soul soared higher than 
traitors can reach. 

" Don't mind me, boys ! Go on with t 
fight !" said Orderly Sergeant Goodfelk 
Bethel fight. He gave his musket to a 
rade. and sank dying in his place ; a Lero- 
soldier, promoted in death to equal rank with 
Greble and Winthrop, who fell not far from 
him. 

There was an old man of Gettysburg, whose 
musket was first shouldered in the war 
1812 ; whose head was white with the snov. 
of seventy years; and when he saw the ba 
flag of disunion blotting the sunshine of h 
cottage-sill, he took down an old State muskt 



HEKOISM OF THE RANK AND FILE. 



from the wall, moulded a score of bullets, as 
they used to do in the times of old. and made 
ready to defend his homestead. Anon came 
the Stars and Stripes through Cumberland 
Valley, and the gray haired farmer presented 
himself to our soldiers. " Take me with you !" 
said the man of three score and ten ; " I can 
still peer over a musket-sight !" And they 
took him with them — those brave "Wisconsin 
boys to whom he showed himself ; and that 
true-hearted veteran fought in our ranks at 
Gettysburg, and was left with three wounds 
field, in sight almost of his own 
iiecti uistone. God be thanked that the veteran 
survived the dread conflict, and that he will, 
at the last, which I hear is close at hand, lay 
down his gray head in peace by his cottage 
on the sacred ground of Gettysburg. Worthy 
to bear the name of Burns — the free-souled 
Scotch bard — was this old fighter for the Re- 
public ! Poor though he may be, he will be- 
queath to his children a heritage of honor that 
Lee and Beauregard, with all their chivalry, 
have no longer in their bestowal. 

And I am reminded here of those gallant 
gunners of Gettysburg, who died upon the 
" Round Top," as they whirled their cannon to 
the front of battle. Here let me recall the 
names of Weed and Hazlett, recorded in the 
rude but graphic verse of a loyal ballad : 

" On to the Round Top ! the Round Top we gain ! 
Falls gallant Weed from a ball— is he slain ? 
Prone on the earth he lies heavily sighing ; 
Near him lie gallant men, wounded and dying. 

' Hazlett, come hither,' sighed Weed, as he lay; 
Hither, my friend — I have something to say !' 
[azlett speeds forward, bends down, lifts his head : 
s a mmie-ball — Hazlett lies dead ! 

' • Dead ere Weed utters the word he would speak ; 
ire both heroes, with cheek close to cheek ; 
■ . led their thoughts as they waft their last breath ; 
■ng each other — united in death." 

the days to come our heroes of rank and 
fi nil be cherished in tradition as we now 
c a the "Liberty Boys " and "Marion's 
Men. Ballads will chronicle their "hand- 
to hand " fights, and their " hair-breadth 

33 " on field and flood. It is of their ex- 
aia : : ;es that our future nation must eat and 
drink, that it may become robust in patriotism. 

>d keep their memory green !'' 

/ Give flowers ! bring flowers ! of every hue, 

■ garden-bed and field, 

' e green above the hearts 
the Northern shield. 

Ask lilies lest buds, 

And violets for theii blue, 



And twine them with the greenest leaves 
For those who died for you ! 

And when the other Junes shall bloom 

Through all the years to be, 
Bring flowers as sweet and fair for those 

Who died to make us free ! 

The heroes and martyis of our Republic are 
guarantees which God vouchsafes for its fu- 
ture. Every drop of blood spilled in defence 
of a free nation, in a righteous cause, is a 
jewelled pledge of some blessing to posterity. 
What matter if gold be banished for a season 
from the public purse ? No nation's treasury 
is bankrupt that has store of patriotic mem- 
ories. Brave deeds are better than ingots. 

I hail the legacy of noble deeds bequeathed 
by our war to immortality — that inestimable 
heritage which we claim this day, showing our 
title to it by these flowers which we reverently 
strew in memory of faithful service sanctified 
to us and to our nation. It is a heritage which 
may not be alienated, and cannot be squan- 
dered. It is the patrimony of freedom. 

What grand contributions this wondrous 
treasure comprises ! how sweet and holy, how 
loyal and liberal, are the donations of heroism ! 
They descend to us in the streamlets from hill- 
tops and mountain pass-ways, where Liberty 
builds her stronghold, and dwells in sunshine 
and starlight ! They look up to us from the 
tender eyes of daisies that grow over woodland 
graves ! They whisper in the land-breezes 
that blow through sword-won valleys ; they 
are crested on the sea-waves that break upon 
blood-bought beaches ! 

And here let me invoke the glorified host of 
nameless men, who have fallen upon the 
marches and battle-fields of Freedom ! Here 
let me apostrophize the unknown armies of 
martyrs who have laid down their lowly lives 
for Liberty in every era and upon every soil ! 

dumb and traceless shades ! misty 
semblances of humanity ! receding into the 
dimness of immemorial centuries ! Ye multi- 
tudes, whose weary journeyings left no foot- 
prints, and whose fall awoke no echo ! Was 
it your destiny to be barren of fruit for the 
future ? to be absorbed, as clouds, into the 
ocean of time, leaving no refit x of your tran- 
sit upon earth or in the heavens ? 

1 think that my soul can recognize a sweet 
response to its invocation — a voiceless yet in- 
telligible reply, down-flowing, as from choirs 
of invisible spirits, in harmonies that interpret 



HEROISM OF THE HANK A]\ T D FILE. 



both Past and Present. I fancy those misty- 
darknesses which enshroud the heroes and pa- 
triots and martyrs of forgotten generations 
have opened sometimes into vistas of immortal 
glory, revealing glimpses of the great White. 
Throne; and that, out from the overpowering 
splendor, unsylla'nled music glides into my 
heart, as of blessed ones chanting eternally. 

'' Clouds we are!" they sing, "but clouds 
are footstools for the Infinite ! Clouds we are ! 
but clouds of witnesses! testifying for ever- 
more in heaven, as we testified on earth, the 
hope, the promise, and the assurance of Free 
dom for humanity !" 

Let us leave with Our Father in heaven the 

records which earth hath lo^t! They rest in 

celestial archives. Enough for us to cherish 

the examples That descend from our fathers, 

and to multiply them by thoughts and deeds 

which shall be memorials for our children here 

after ! 

Flowers for the valiant Dead 
Who for the Union bled ! 
Let all the summers shed 

Sweets on our brave ! 

Let all the years renew 
Liberty's colors true, 
Plant the Red, White, and Blue 
Over each grave ! 

Red rose for valor sow — 
Lilies for honor strew, 



And for the hearts below 
Violets bine. 

So shall the years to be 
Say to our children free, 
Liberty's colors three 
Still are for you ! 

Lightly let flowers enfold 

Pledges worth more than gold : 
Lay on the lowly mould 
Lily .and rose : 

Pledges thai Fro 
Planted at Runnymede, 

Up out of thorn and weed 
Evermore grows ! 

Out from these ashes mute 
Freedom's 1 ** ide branches shoot — 
Liberty's lofty fruit 

Beckons the slave. 

Soon to these altars dumb, 
Grandly, at beat of drum, 
All the far lands shall come, 
Blessing our brave ! 

Come, where the valiant host 
Loving their country most. 
In her dread Pentecost 

Yielded their souls ! 

Come, at the Whitsuntide, 
Counting, with love and pride, 
Every true man who died 
Still on the rolls ! 

So, through the marching years, 
Mingling their manly tear-. 
Mustered by rosy biers, 

Soldiers shall stand : 

So, o'er each lowly grave, 
Freedom's high flag shall wave. 
Blessing the dead who gave 
Life to the land ! 









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